The Regime: Evil Advances (4 page)

“You are certain that I need to be along, Ion?”

“Oh yes, sir,” he said. “It would be easy for them to turn me down. But having to face you in person, well, I believe they will be impressed.”

“You can prove my business is more than good collateral?”

“Of course. In fact, you will likely need to put up only a portion of it.”

“Do you speak English, Ion?”

“Not so much, no, sir.”

“You know, in English your name is not pronounced E-on. It is pronounced Eye-on. An atomic term. And when the American wants something watched over, he ‘keeps an eye on’ it, which sounds the same. That is the role you will serve today. Once we secure the financing, of course.”

It was clear the play on words was lost on Ion. “I was named after the Romanian playwright Ionesco.” He busied himself peeking at file summaries he said he had finalized late the night before.

When they reached the bank and Ion opened his door, he knocked it into the bodyguard who was trying to open it for him. Then he didn’t seem to know whether to wait for Nicolae or simply to hurry into the bank and ask for the officer with whom he had made the appointment.

Nicolae caught up to him, and it became clear that their meeting was with several of the brass.

After pleasantries, the senior lending officer said, “Mr. Carpathia, we have your prospectus, of course, but perhaps you would care to personally walk us through your plans, should we see our way clear to front your company one hundred million.”

Jackie and Irene sat at the park, watching their kids while chatting. To Irene it seemed Jackie could barely contain herself. “If you’ve received Christ, Irene,” she

said, “you must get into a Bible-believing, Bible-teaching church that will help you grow.”

“I know. And yours sounds wonderful. But Rayford is dead set against it. I’m tempted to go anyway.”

“I don’t recommend that,” Jackie said. “No sense alienating him. How about one of our weekly Bible studies?”

“He says that’s okay if it keeps me from switching churches, but I know it will annoy him.”

“I’ve got it!” Jackie said. “One day a week you bring Raymie to my house at nap time, and I’ll put Brianna down at the same time. Then I could mentor you through a simple formula our church uses one-on-one and in small groups all the time.”

Irene smiled. “Would there be homework?”

“You bet there would.” Jackie outlined a plan that called for Irene to read at least one chapter from the New Testament each day and keep a daily journal of what she learned. She was also to read one of the very short New Testament books each day—like 1 John or Philippians. “You also make a list of ten people you’re concerned about and pray for them. Then we’ll get together every week and debrief.”

Irene could only imagine how that would all sound to Rayford. Maybe she wouldn’t tell him until the time was right. To her, it sounded perfect.

Nicolae was glad to have the floor at the bank. “I want to take advantage of globalism,” he said. “I want to buy

and sell and trade at the touch of a button. I am particularly intrigued by the new electronic technology originating in the United States and want to contract to bring oral-cellular communications to Europe. Have you heard of it?”

“Where they implant sensors in your teeth?” an officer said.

“Exactly. You hear the vibrations and tones directly in your mouth and inner ear, and no one else can hear them. It is sweeping the States, and I aim to corner the market on it here. Ion can show you in a matter of minutes that my company is worth well more than what I am seeking.”

It turned out to be almost too easy. Ion was nervous but thorough. The bank agreed that time was of the essence. They prepared documents outlining the schedule of payouts and paybacks on the money, and Nicolae left with assurances that the first fifth of the amount would be in his business account by the close of the next day.

Twenty-one-year-old Cameron Williams lounged in ancient Nassau Hall on the campus of Princeton University in New Jersey, idly leafing through
Global Weekly
magazine while waiting for his date. She lived in student housing a few blocks south but insisted on meeting him here. His own dorm was to the north.

Cameron read
Global Weekly
every chance he got.

His dream was to win an internship there before leaving Princeton, his ultimate goal working for the magazine.
Time
or
Newsweek
would be all right too, but he considered GW the ultimate.

A short piece in the People section caught his eye. A Pan-Con Airlines pilot was being lauded for averting a crash in Los Angeles, certainly saving the lives of hundreds aboard both his and a US Air craft on the ground. Captain Rayford Steele had gone from being suspected of procedural improprieties to hero status when the airlines and the National Transportation Safety Board concluded their investigations. Apparently the craft had been deemed sound before takeoff, a minor issue having been taken care of, and the captain had followed protocol. But after losing an engine and facing limited visibility, he’d had to manhandle the plane to safety.

Cameron glanced at his watch and tossed the magazine on a table. He stood and checked his longish blond hair in a mirror. He missed Tucson, but the Ivy League was the place to be if he wanted a career in frontline journalism. Sure, Princeton was known for its emphasis on architecture, engineering, and science, but its preceptorial approach, fostering self-study and individualism, fit Cameron perfectly. The journalism track in liberal arts should prove to be a stepping-stone to the career he wanted.

Cameron Williams didn’t want to just read about heroes. He didn’t even care to be one. He just wanted to write about them.

Something was happening with Rayford, and he couldn’t make sense of it. After three consecutive weeks when he was coincidentally off work on Sundays and able to attend church with Irene and the kids, he found himself restless, uncomfortable.

He was too young for a midlife crisis, and yet this had all the earmarks. It was as if he had settled into the life he had dreamed of and was now wondering if this was all there was. He had an attractive, even vivacious wife, a perky blonde daughter who reminded him of himself, and a young son, on whom he pinned many dreams. They had a nice home and two cars they shouldn’t have stretched to afford.

Rayford had even enjoyed a brief season of celebrity. His heroics at LAX—though they had hardly seemed so at the time; desperate measures were more like it—had earned him a squib in all three major newsweeklies, appearances on two Chicago TV news shows, a spot on one of the network morning shows, and a summons to Washington for him and his boss, Earl Halliday. They gained an audience with none other than the president of Pan-Con himself, Leonard Gustafson.

In truth, Rayford had thought Earl’s secretary was kidding when she called to tell him of the invite. “Yeah, Francine, and I’m the Easter bunny.”

But it had been true, and he enjoyed the ride with Earl, as first-class passengers, and the privilege of meeting the legendary Gustafson. He proved shorter than Rayford-- most men were--and even thinner than the wispy Earl,

but being ex-military, Gustafson had that bearing that commanded respect.

Rayford had always been a bit of a Boy Scout—formal, courteous, moderate in his appetites. So it hit him strange that both Gustafson and Halliday thought nothing of having a stiff shot of scotch in Gustafson’s office in the middle of the afternoon. On the other hand, he didn’t want to seem rude by rejecting the offered drink.

“You can imagine,” the president said at last, “that I can’t have a sit-down with every pilot who does what he’s been trained to do.”

“Yes, frankly, I was wondering what all the fuss was about,” said Rayford.

“Well, that’s just it,” Gustafson said. “Had you reveled in the attention, I would have let that be the extent of it. That would have been your reward; know what I mean? But Pan-Con looks for examples, men and women we are proud to have wearing our wings. Your feat was extraordinary. Not unique, but special nonetheless. But how you’ve handled it has been exemplary. You didn’t make it into something it wasn’t. And what you said on the Today show about it being the thing that any trained pilot would have to try, that was spot-on. So congratulations, thanks, and be aware that I have put your name on the short list as a substitute on Air Force One and Air Force Two.”

“Sir?”

“As you know, occasionally we get asked for referrals if there is ever a need for backup for the president or the vice president. Such opportunities are rare, because the

full-time job always goes to a military pilot, and there are several pilots ahead of you on the sub list. But a lot goes into a recommendation. Even a man’s looks. How he wears the uniform, carries himself, deals with the press. There might be a hundred men more qualified than you on our team across the country, but your little brush with notoriety made you visible. So, good for you.”

Rayford was flattered, of course. He didn’t expect anything to materialize from the Air Force One thing, given that substituting was mostly honorary and there were several ahead of him. But it did get him thinking about whether a big honor like that should be a career goal. He’d not had a dream higher than where he sat every few days—in the cockpit of a 747. And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been nagging him. Had he peaked too soon, achieved his goals, realized his dreams?

On the flight back, since he had already had a couple of belts in Gustafson’s office, Rayford surprised himself and wondered if he noticed a double take on Halliday’s part when he accepted a couple more hard drinks.

“Glad you’re just a passenger,” Earl said.

Rayford laughed a little too loudly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You know me.”

“Thought I did.”

“C’mon, Earl. We’re celebrating, aren’t we?”

In truth, Rayford had never been a problem drinker. He rarely got drunk, even on the golf course, sipping beers for four or five hours at a time on Saturdays and as soon as he could get away from home after church on Sundays.

Maybe that was his problem. He felt guilty leaving Irene with the kids for the better part of the weekends he was home. And yet he told himself—and her when she mentioned it—that he deserved his own time. He worked hard. His job was high stress.

So many shots of the good stuff in one afternoon was unusual enough for Rayford that they knocked him out and he slept soundly, even through dinner—normally pretty good in first class.

“That’s quite all right,” Halliday said later. “I needed your butter and your dessert anyway.”

“Not like me,” Rayford said. “I usually sleep light enough that smells wake me, especially hot food right under my nose.”

Still logy, Rayford was long enough from his last drink to trust himself to drive home. But this was the day Irene had her meeting with Jackie. Well, the women saw each other almost every day, but this was the official one, the study one, their own little mentoring-and-accountability group. Deep down Rayford wished he had a friend like Irene did. But still he dreaded her rambling accounts of all that had gone on.

These days there was a light in Irene’s eyes, a glow he both resented and envied. Rayford decided to just settle in and listen, because he was going to get both barrels anyway. He was not, however, prepared for today’s account.

“Jackie had some stuff to do today,” she said at dinner. “So she gave me a practical assignment.” Irene paused, as if waiting for Rayford to ask what that meant.

He would not bite. It was enough that he was giving her eye contact and not showing his boredom.

“I was to pick someone on my prayer list and do something specific for them today.”

She’s going to say she picked me. And I wonder what she did for me.

“I chose your parents.”

“My mom and dad?”

“Those would be your parents, yes, Rafe.”

She had his attention. “Yeah, I know, but what? What did you do?”

“I visited them.”

“In Belvidere?”

“Where else, hon? It’s not like they get out much.”

“You drove all the way to Belvidere?”

“No, I took our helicopter. Thanks so much for providing that.”

“Stop being so snippy, Irene. I mean, seriously? You drove to Belvidere on a weekday, without me, to see my parents?”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Pleased? I’m … I’m speechless. I’m dumbfounded. Frankly, I didn’t know you cared. That much, I mean.”

“You know what, Rayford? I never did care that much before. I mean, they were your parents and I liked them all right. But your father has not really been with us mentally for years, and your mother is hard on his heels. But ever since I started praying for them, I—”

“What do you pray for them? It’s not like they’re going to be healed of Alzheimer’s.”

“No, I know. I pray for their souls. I pray they’ll have moments of lucidity and that when they do, someone will be there to interact with them. I pray they’ll have more good days than bad, that God will comfort them, that they will have peace and safety, and that the staff at the home will be kind to them.”

Rayford didn’t know what to say. He was moved. Touched deeply, actually. “Thank you, Irene,” he said, surprised by a catch in his throat. “That was a very nice thing you did for me. For my parents, I mean.”

She hadn’t said it was for him. It was for his parents. They were the objects of her prayers. But it also had been a gift to him. That his wife would see him off to the airport, get Chloe to school, bundle up Raymie, and make that drive … well, talk about above and beyond the call.

This was the day. And Nicolae was ready. He had risen early and followed a hard, sweaty five-mile run with a vigorous half hour on the rower and a weight-lifting set. In the shower he rehearsed his pitch and could barely wait to get to the phone. He had to wait until mid-afternoon to allow his target in the United States to begin his workday, so Nicolae filled his morning checking in on staff and staying atop everything.

When the appointed time came, he rubbed his hands together, sat back with his feet on his desk, reminded himself of everything he knew about his prey and the product, strapped on his ear set, and called the
CEO
of Corona Technologies in New Orleans, Louisiana.